Standing on the Platform
by planet p
Summary: Dusty is going to a New Year’s Eve party. A sequel to Fair Ground. Dusty/Malcolm


_2009_

Her mp3 player's full of Lily Allen, Dusty stands on the sweltering platform, gazing at the man she'd met more than a year ago.

Her mind flashes back to the last moment she'd seen him, standing on some street in some town, holding the silly card box in which he'd kept the bouquet of flowers he'd bought at the fair where they'd met and she'd invited him to meet her 'friend;' the bouquet of flowers he'd placed upon Alicia's grave.

She'd given him the name Marie, she recalls, remembering that his name had begun, also, with the letter 'm.' She'd never even found out what he did for a living, she remembers.

She can't remember his name.

He's still awfully freckled, he's still got that gap between his two front teeth; his eyes haven't changed their mountain-range-from-a-distance blue hue. He hasn't changed at all, to her eyes.

Quickly, she deposits her earplugs in her purse with her mp3 player, and raises a hand to the side of her face, turning quickly to the side when she sees him direct his gaze in her direction.

She doesn't fancy that reunion.

She's wearing an evening dress that, far from a million bucks, makes her feel absolutely preposterous. A pale brown affair, as her name, Dusty, suggests; coupled with dainty black high heels, topped with little black bows.

She's fresh out of excuses, now, to explain why she'd bought the dippy things in the first place. She'd have been better served, she knows, leaving the things on the shelf for some other sucker to stumble upon. She wishes, now, that she had.

How she is to make a nippy getaway in the stupid heels, she hasn't the foggiest idea, not even a trace of it, in fact.

She shuts down the thought. She can't think of fog, not today.

_Tunnel, Tunnibridge_, last names flit through her mind until she finally strikes upon the right one: _Tunney_. That had been his name, she recalls. Why she'd care, she can't fathom.

The answer comes to her in the form of a loud voice from her side, "Marie! My goodness, it _is_ you!"

Her brown eyes widen slightly and she turns slowly, though she already knows what's waiting for her – she remembers _that_ voice – so the sight of his round, boyish face isn't as startling as it might have been.

She still remembers how he'd backed down when she'd threatened to _hurt_ him.

"Dear me," he exclaims, "you look positively exotic!"

She doesn't take the comment well, she wagers, judging by the loud slap and the sting of her hand; skin against skin, weight against weight. It's not even about the 'compliment,' it's more to do with his _foolhardy_ wording; 'exotic.'

She's heard that word too many times, through the course of her years, used in derogatory ways, to take it lightly, to take it easily. Used to belittle her cultural heritage, her parents' cultural heritage; to suggest that what she does is anything less than honourable; that _she_ is something less.

She can't have that, not today.

The cry of hurt, of _What did you do that for?_ is stomped dead by the expression upon her face. "The intention was not to offend," he says quietly, apologetically.

"Well, that's not how it went down, hmm, Malcolm?" she breathes, her fury audible, tangible, alive in the heave of her chest. A thought flashes through her mind, _Now I remember the stupid name!_

She doesn't expect the understanding, and she doesn't want it. She doesn't want his apology; she wants to throw it back in his face with a fist!

She wants to _hurt_ him.

How dare he upset her like this!

She presses the soft underside of her fingers to her nose, palm against her chin; she doesn't know what to do now.

His hand comes up to touch hers. "There's no n-need… for upset," he stammers, taking her hand from her face and clasping it warmly in his own, "on my account."

Tears fill her eyes; she hasn't pulled back her hand. Why hasn't she reclaimed her hand? She shakes her head; she feels the tears slide from side to side, readying to take flight. "I shouldn't have done that," she breathes, feeling her voice crack. She's supposed to be in control; she _needs_ to be in control.

She feels his other hand, warm on her face; she feels the tears spill from her eyes and wet his hand.

She hates to cry.

She doesn't want it, at all.

The grip from the hand that is holding hers slackens, then her hand is cold, alone.

He brings the hand up to brush the tears from her cheeks.

She feels numb. She _shouldn't_ be _allowing_ him to touch her like this; she _should_ be _hurting_ him.

The tears continue to flow; a muffled sob escapes her with the tears.

She's going to a dinner party in a few hours, and here she is, standing at a train station, crying her eyes out in front of a man who might as well be a complete stranger, and… and… she can't bring herself to send him away.

She _wants_ him to stay.

"Marie! Oh, Marie!"

When he says her 'name' like that, pulling her to him in an embrace, a part of her wishes it really _was_ her name.

She lets herself cry; it's _too_ hard not to.

* * *

He decides, he tells her, that he will accompany her to where she is going, at least, to the doorstep, and she doesn't object; merely rests her head upon his shoulder.

She can't believe what is happening, what she is _allowing_ to happen, but she has no will left with which to fight it.

She closes her eyes and he holds her hand.

It is probably the nicest thing anyone has done for her all year, she thinks distantly.

He hums Debussy's _Clair de Lune_, and she can pretend it is okay.

* * *

"You'll be alright to go alone?"

It's cold, and she's got to give his jacket back; she doesn't _want_ to 'go alone,' but she's there, now, standing right outside, on the pavement, with the lights from the windows staining her hair, staining her face.

It's dark; it's warm and bright inside, but she'd take the chilly night to stay with him a moment longer.

She doesn't understand the feeling; it's not at all right, but it's not wrong, either.

"Yes," she manages, and it's surprising that her voice isn't constricted. She's already pulling off the jacket; it doesn't go with her evening dress, anyway.

She feels the sting of the evening; they're not holding hands anymore.

He takes the jacket back and folds it over his arm.

Her eyes dart to the steps, where she sees Jennifer. Jennifer gives her a smile. She returns her gaze to Malcolm: it's time to say 'goodbye.' "It was kind of you to accompany me here," she hears herself say. "Goodbye, Malcolm."

He offers her a warm smile. It's alright now, her friends are just inside. "Goodbye, Marie," he says.

She steps away from him, stepping backward to see him off.

He nods and turns.

She watches him walk away.

From the top of the step, she sees Jennifer hurry down to meet her. "_Who_ was that?" Jennifer asks, grinning.

She manages something resembling a smile. "I don't know," she answers, and she doesn't.

* * *

Jennifer laughs. "You _don't_ know!"

"Of course you know," Amelia interrupts, coming down the steps.

"Rodney says his name is Malcolm," Teyla explains, joining them. "Shall we join the others inside? It is quite cold out here."

Jennifer's eyes go wide. "Malcolm!" she moans.

"You know of him?" Teyla questions, surprised.

Jennifer takes Dusty's arm gently and leads her to the steps. "Have you met Edward?" she asks, as they begin the descent toward the door.

"No," Dusty replies. She turns her head to look at Teyla, coming to the steps behind her.

Teyla frowns. It isn't any of her business, really.

Inside, it is warm; bright.

Dusty blinks, and allows herself to relax, to reconnect with her 'normal' self.

"You're not inviting _him_ in?" Rodney demands, bustling over.

"Oh, Rodney!" Jennifer cries.

"Inviting who?" Dusty asks.

Rodney narrows his eyes in calculation; he's not buying it.

"Malcolm, dear," Teyla reminds her.

Dusty feels strange, not herself. She wants, suddenly, to be alone. She needs to find herself again; she's sure this feeling isn't right.

Jennifer moans. Hurrying forward, she loops her arm through Rodney's. A moment later, they are gone; they'd disappeared amongst the crowd.

Amelia places a hand on her arm. She tries not to start. "It's okay," Amelia tells her.

Teyla nods; it is quite okay.

"I forgot to wish him a Happy New Year," she says, suddenly.

Amelia glances at Teyla.

"Would you like to sit down?" Teyla asks.

Dusty shakes her head; no.

"Are you sure, dear?" Teyla presses, concern evident on her face.

She twirls, suddenly, and runs toward the door, taking the steps at a dangerous pace in shoes that are all wrong for running. She heads into the darkness, following the outline of the footpath as her eyes adjust to the dimness of the night, lit, at odd intervals, by streetlamps and windows.

He's waiting for the evening bus; she's out of breath. "I realised I hadn't wished you a Happy New Year," she says, breathily.

He turns sharply and frowns. "Well, it isn't _quite_ New Year yet," he explains.

She takes deep breaths. "You're leaving," she says.

He casts a glance toward the direction of the street from which he's expecting the bus, then returns his gaze to her face. "Yes," he agrees.

She shivers; her heart is beating fast, but it's cold. "Will you wait?" she asks, scarcely able to believe that the words are her own, though they are spoken in _her_ voice.

He frowns, "It would be my pleasure," he replies.

They walk, together, back to the house, warm with lights and the voices of her friends.

* * *

**This is so soppy it's probably fairly yuck. For some reason, Malcolm always makes me think of Ludo Bagman. Shock, horror, I don't mind either of them. Thanks for reading.**

**I don't own _Stargate: Atlantis_.**


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